Tag: Pets

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Quirky Domestic Situations, by Ricky

Me? Quirky? I don’t think so. I’m perfectly normal in every way even for a gay guy. Very nondescript, average looking, wonderful personality (so I’ve been told and I choose to believe it) and nothing quirky about me. So, I felt very secure in asking my oldest daughter if she thought there was anything quirky about me; knowing all along that she couldn’t think of anything even if she thought more than her 30-second attention span for caring about anything I say.

Apparently, it was a case of me not seeing the forest because the trees were in the way; or (as the Bible puts it in Matthew, Chapter 7) a case of “mote” “beam” sickness. Let’s see if I can remember accurately. My daughter thought for all of 3 seconds and came up with “The Lord of the Rings”.

Apparently, every time we have guests over I always ask them at some point if they like to read books and if so what type. (My daughter keeps track of these things somehow; I don’t keep count.) Not long after the topic of books and movies turns up, someone, not always me, will bring up “The Lord of the Rings”; at which time a 15 to 30 minute discussion of the book and movie will follow. My daughter has grown very tired of hearing it over and over.

The last time it happened was two weeks ago. She had invited the church missionaries over for dinner. I was on my way home from somewhere and called to let her know. She informed me that the missionaries were there for dinner so I asked if I was invited or should I eat before I came home. She told me to come on home. She told us all later, that at this point she wanted to add that I could come home to eat, if I did not talk about “The Lord of the Rings” but she did not say it. I came home. We all sat down to eat and during the small talk, my daughter asked one of the missionaries where he lived and went to school. He replied, “Sacramento.” My daughter thought to herself, “Oh no.” I said, “I went to college in Sacramento.” When asked where I replied, “Sacramento State College” and I flunked out after two semesters. (My daughter is now screaming in her head, “No. No. Nooooo.) When asked why did I flunk out, I couldn’t lie so I said because my English 101 teacher made us read “The Lord of the Rings.” After the ensuing 20 minute discussion, my daughter told us what she did not tell me when I called and then she said, “and I ended up giving the lead-in question to the topic I hate.” I think my daughter is the quirky one.

I’m sure I’m not quirky, but quirky things seem to go on around me. For example, my daughter’s mother-in-law, Maria, was raised on a collective farm in the old Soviet Union. As a result, she has worked all her life. When she came to live with us no one asked her to help around the house but she doesn’t know how to be “retired”. So, she is constantly cleaning, cooking, doing laundry (until the washer broke), and generally being every man’s ideal housewife. When she does want a private time, she goes to our old tool and garden shed where she has made herself what I call a “nest”; goes in and hides. It’s rather cozy actually, but she is the quirky one.

Maria’s husband, Gari, who also lives with us, is a bit quirky or maybe just eccentric. He walks ¾ of a mile to the grocery store and back and generally ignores the traffic signs for walk and don’t walk; at least until last month when he did it in front of Lakewood’s “finest” and received a $79 ticket for walking across the street at an intersection against the don’t walk sign. That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of someone getting what is essentially a jay-walking type citation. I don’t know if he is quirky or if it’s just the situation that’s quirky.

My daughter’s husband and Maria’s son, Artur, is rather quirky. Today when I told him that our Himalayan cat was pregnant he became his quirky self. At first anger stating that he would throw her out and then a few seconds later he demanded we get the cat an abortion. When my daughter pointed out that he always had said he wanted the cat to have kittens, he responded that it was true but not by an alley cat (paraphrased). Once it was explained that the father was ½ Persian or ½ Himalayan he calmed down a bit. In a day or two he will be fine with the situation—that’s his quirk. In fact, we don’t know for sure who the father is. The only cat we’ve seen in her company was the one we mentioned. I also will not tell him that on the weekends when he and his mother are gone all day, I repeatedly let the cat out knowing she was in heat. I did it for two reasons. I got tired of listening to the cat yowling and I like kittens. Maybe that’s my quirk.

© 17 Apr 2012

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Pets, by Lewis


After initially thinking I would describe a litany of the pets I have owned over my lifetime–from a dog to a hog-nosed snake to a squirrel to a parakeet–I soon became aware that I had tapped into a very deep well of sadness. More than a moment of grief, it felt as if I had broken the seal on a bottle of “despair Drambuie” that had been corked for sixty years.

Of all my pets, my most dear was the only dog I have ever owned, a mixed fox terrier puppy named Skippy. He was a gift from my maternal grandfather–the only grandparent I have ever known–on a day in May of 1955 that was totally unremarkable. There was no “occasion”. I simply arrived home from another day in the 3rd grade at Morgan Elementary to find a puppy running around the kitchen. I was told by my mother that the puppy was a gift from Granddad Homer, who was living with us but at the time nowhere to be seen.

This was not unusual for my grandfather. Although extremely generous with his money, he was a five-star miser when it came to communication. I do not remember a time when we shared a conversation, laugh, or tender touch. When he gave gifts, he always did it through a surrogate– our first TV magically appeared in our living room, my first bike was delivered by a Sears van as I sat on the front lawn, my first gun–a .410 gauge shotgun–was handed down from him through the hands of my father. When he died, approximately six months after bringing Skippy into my life, I was not allowed to attend his funeral. Since when does a 9-year-old need closure?

At first, I resented the duties that came with owning a dog. When still a puppy, I attached a leash to his halter and swung him around in the back yard as if he were on a merry-go-round. But soon, Skippy became my trusted and loyal buddy.

On Columbus Day, 1961, I was sitting at my desk doing homework after school in my bedroom. I was 15 and a high school sophomore. Mom was the TV Editor for the Hutchinson [KS] News and hadn’t yet come home. I heard Dad come in the front door and could tell something was wrong. Dad had found Skippy lying in the street dead, apparently hit by a car. His body was unmarked except for a tiny tear in his skin.

I could tell Dad was sorry for my pain. I asked him what we should do. He said we should find a spot to bury Skippy in the back yard.

Dad grabbed a shovel and I carried my dog as gently as my shaking arms would allow. We looked around for an appropriate place of internment. Somewhat baffled, Dad–who could have been the prototype for Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame–said, “Where can we bury that damn dog, anyway?” I had already steeled myself against showing one whit of emotion and his comment only steadied my resolve. We did agree on a final resting place and I placed Skippy into it, along with a piece of my heart.

I never owned another dog as long as I have lived. The pets I have had have not been of the type that one would describe as “cuddly”. They were either reptiles or amphibians, except for one brief turn with a wounded baby squirrel.

Lately, as I have been giving more thought to the notion of once again being “in relationship”, I ask myself, “What kind of person would I be happiest with?” It seems to me that the process is a lot more like selecting a breed of dog to purchase as a pet that some people might think. Am I looking for a guard dog, a lap dog, or a dog to play “fetch” with? Why, I ask myself, are most of my friends women? Why do the men I know mostly seem to be narcissists who talk only about themselves and NEVER ask a question about my life?

At the suggestion of a newly-acquired male friend, I took the online Enneagram Personality Test. I found out that I am a Type 2–The Helper. I am told “people of this type essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who…go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need.”

Not too bad an assessment, I would say. The description of a Type 2 goes on to say, “Two’s often develop a sense of entitlement when it comes to the people closest to them. Because they have extended themselves for others, they begin to feel that gratitude is owed to them. They can become intrusive and demanding if their often unacknowledged emotional needs go unmet.”

I recoiled from this accusation upon first reading. The idea that I could become “intrusive and demanding” seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. But upon further contemplation, I had to admit that I do have “unmet emotional needs which go largely unacknowledged”. The suddenness of this realization flooded over me like a loss every bit as painful as the death of a beloved pet.

Still, some men I know do engender a powerful resentment in me. These are the ones I labeled a bit ago as “narcissistic”. The conversation is all about them with never a thought about me. This trait among the men I know is so pervasive as to explain why it is that I much prefer the company of women. It’s not that I feel that “gratitude is owed to me” as much as I feel that I am an interesting person who deserves equal time. I don’t think that is too much to ask of a friendship. If all I cared about was caring for and pampering the other, I would go out and buy a cat. Alternatively, I’ll just have to learn how to extend myself less or be more open about verbalizing my own need for caring. Anybody know any Type 2’s out there?

© 18 August 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

Posted on

Pets, by Lewis

After initially thinking I would describe a litany of the pets I have owned over my lifetime–from a dog to a hog-nosed snake to a squirrel to a parakeet–I soon became aware that I had tapped into a very deep well of sadness. More than a moment of grief, it felt as if I had broken the seal on a bottle of “despair Drambuie” that had been corked for sixty years.

Of all my pets, my most dear was the only dog I have ever owned, a mixed fox terrier puppy named Skippy. He was a gift from my maternal grandfather–the only grandparent I have ever known–on a day in May of 1955 that was totally unremarkable. There was no “occasion”. I simply arrived home from another day in the 3rd grade at Morgan Elementary to find a puppy running around the kitchen. I was told by my mother that the puppy was a gift from Granddad Homer, who was living with us but at the time nowhere to be seen.

This was not unusual for my grandfather. Although extremely generous with his money, he was a five-star miser when it came to communication. I do not remember a time when we shared a conversation, laugh, or tender touch. When he gave gifts, he always did it through a surrogate– our first TV magically appeared in our living room, my first bike was delivered by a Sears van as I sat on the front lawn, my first gun–a .410 gauge shotgun–was handed down from him through the hands of my father. When he died, approximately six months after bringing Skippy into my life, I was not allowed to attend his funeral. Since when does a 9-year-old need closure?

At first, I resented the duties that came with owning a dog. When still a puppy, I attached a leash to his halter and swung him around in the back yard as if he were on a merry-go-round. But soon, Skippy became my trusted and loyal buddy.

On Columbus Day, 1961, I was sitting at my desk doing homework after school in my bedroom. I was 15 and a high school sophomore. Mom was the TV Editor for the Hutchinson [KS] News and hadn’t yet come home. I heard Dad come in the front door and could tell something was wrong. Dad had found Skippy lying in the street dead, apparently hit by a car. His body was unmarked except for a tiny tear in his skin.

I could tell Dad was sorry for my pain. I asked him what we should do. He said we should find a spot to bury Skippy in the back yard.

Dad grabbed a shovel and I carried my dog as gently as my shaking arms would allow. We looked around for an appropriate place of internment. Somewhat baffled, Dad–who could have been the prototype for Jimmy Olsen of Superman fame–said, “Where can we bury that damn dog, anyway?” I had already steeled myself against showing one whit of emotion and his comment only steadied my resolve. We did agree on a final resting place and I placed Skippy into it, along with a piece of my heart.

I never owned another dog as long as I have lived. The pets I have had have not been of the type that one would describe as “cuddly”. They were either reptiles or amphibians, except for one brief turn with a wounded baby squirrel.

Lately, as I have been giving more thought to the notion of once again being “in relationship”, I ask myself, “What kind of person would I be happiest with?” It seems to me that the process is a lot more like selecting a breed of dog to purchase as a pet that some people might think. Am I looking for a guard dog, a lap dog, or a dog to play “fetch” with? Why, I ask myself, are most of my friends women? Why do the men I know mostly seem to be narcissists who talk only about themselves and NEVER ask a question about my life?

At the suggestion of a newly-acquired male friend, I took the online Enneagram Personality Test. I found out that I am a Type 2–The Helper. I am told “people of this type essentially feel that they are worthy insofar as they are helpful to others. Love is their highest ideal. Selflessness is their duty. Giving to others is their reason for being. Involved, socially aware, usually extroverted, Twos are the type of people who…go the extra mile to help out a co-worker, spouse or friend in need.”

Not too bad an assessment, I would say. The description of a Type 2 goes on to say, “Two’s often develop a sense of entitlement when it comes to the people closest to them. Because they have extended themselves for others, they begin to feel that gratitude is owed to them. They can become intrusive and demanding if their often unacknowledged emotional needs go unmet.”

I recoiled from this accusation upon first reading. The idea that I could become “intrusive and demanding” seemed like a ridiculous fantasy. But upon further contemplation, I had to admit that I do have “unmet emotional needs which go largely unacknowledged”. The suddenness of this realization flooded over me like a loss every bit as painful as the death of a beloved pet.

Still, some men I know do engender a powerful resentment in me. These are the ones I labeled a bit ago as “narcissistic”. The conversation is all about them with never a thought about me. This trait among the men I know is so pervasive as to explain why it is that I much prefer the company of women. It’s not that I feel that “gratitude is owed to me” as much as I feel that I am an interesting person who deserves equal time. I don’t think that is too much to ask of a friendship. If all I cared about was caring for and pampering the other, I would go out and buy a cat. Alternatively, I’ll just have to learn how to extend myself less or be more open about verbalizing my own need for caring. Anybody know any Type 2’s out there?

© 18 August 2014

About the Author

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn’t getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth. Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband’s home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.

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Pets by Phillip Hoyle

I can easily list my pets. I had one, Tippy, a brown and white beagle.

There were other pets around me. For instance, Mother always had a cat or several. Thus I recall Deetle-eye Jones. My eldest sister got a cat, an almost pink Persian who was a real scaredy cat. My youngest sister brought home a cat one rainy afternoon, a cat who stayed around many years. Mascot could raise a ruckus. And there were Sylvester and his mate. This was around the time Tippy moved in next door and eventually into our family. And I recall when Myrna and I had little kids a church office worker gave us Marcie, a cute black miniature poodle. But then we moved and took her off to live with friends in Colorado. 

My son Michael had a tortoise he found on a woodland path. That pet loved to eat earthworms and strawberries and made little comment. My daughter Desma brought home a white rat from science class in school. He lived with us quite awhile until he was nine inches in length with a nine inch tail. We never told our African son Francis about these two critters. He was always complaining about how Americans fed the children’s food to pets. 
Finally Desma’s boyfriend gave her a white bunny for Christmas. I said to the kids she’d be grown up by Easter and could be our Easter dinner. The thing must have overheard me because she hopped away into the neighboring woods. Desma later reported she saw brown and white bunnies hopping in the woods.

I have made friends with a few more pets. My good friend Big Tony had two very nice white miniature poodles. I sometimes dog sat them. My partner Michael O had two dogs, one friendly the other grumpy and nervous. As Michael got ill I took more and more care of those dogs. They were present at his death. 

My kids and their kids have pets. My neighbors have pets. Sometimes I massage them (the pets, that is). They think I’m their friend or treat me as their pet.

© Denver, 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Forever, by Ricky

In this life nothing is forever. Possessions rust, tarnish, are lost, stolen, or permanently misplaced. Some things we own just simply wear out or become broken. Pets live their allotted time span, if they are lucky, and then die. People do the same. No one wants to think about or dwell on “death”, but we all will face it during our lifetime.

When I was a child of 2, my beloved pet dog, Bonnie, died from canine distemper. I was too young to comprehend “death” but I knew that she was no longer around.

At 13-years old, I discovered my neighbor from across the street, dead. I had not seen him for almost two weeks but his livingroom light was on all day and night. I went over to investigate. Looking in the cabin livingroom window I could see him locked in the attitude of trying to get out of bed. His door was unlocked and I opened it to be sure he was dead. His medium size pet dog met me at the door. The dog was emaciated. I stepped in and could smell the man was really dead. I noticed that the dog had drank all the water in the toilet bowl so I flushed it so he would have some more. I then ran home and called the sheriff’s office and then took the dog some food. I wanted to keep the dog at least until he was back in good condition, but the deputy insisted that the animal shelter would care for him.

Next to go was my mother’s dad while I was in the Air Force stationed in Florida. I took leave to attend his funeral in Minnesota. I hesitated to go into the viewing room so my 3-year-older-than-me uncle gently pushed me into the room. I had hesitated to decide if I really wanted my last memory of my grandfather to be this one. My uncle unwittingly made the choice for me. A few weeks thereafter, my mother wrote to tell me my pet dog, Peewee, died. I cried a little for her.

While working as a deputy sheriff in Pima County, Arizona, I had the occasion to discover three fatal traffic accidents. One killed a migrant worker when the vehicle he was riding in rolled over. He was thrown out and the car came to a stop on his head. The second accident involved an Air Force enlisted man, his wife, and newborn child. It happened on Christmas day and killed all three of them. No other vehicle was involved. The third accident was also a vehicle rollover. In this case, the two youths in the vehicle had been at a party involving some alcohol. Their high school classmates at the party reported later that the passenger had not been drinking, but the driver had. The driver survived the rollover and walked away uninjured. The passenger was thrown half-way out the passenger door at the time the door shut on his abdomen. These are three memories I wish I did not have, and they do periodically haunt me.

My mother passed a few years later from liver cancer. I arrived from Arizona to speak to her the afternoon prior to her passing that night. I took the early morning phone call from the hospital and woke my step-father to tell him. Then I went in to my sister’s bedroom where I could hear her crying and comforted her. After she calmed down I woke my brother and stayed with him for a while. He didn’t cry in front of me. I didn’t cry at all, but I did feel a loss. No one comforted me.

While in the Air Force for the second time, this time as an officer, my cat, Charlie, caught feline distemper. I made a “bed” for him near the furnace in the laundry room with a supply of water. I awoke during the wee hours of the night and felt that I should go check on him. He was breathing irregularly when I arrived in the laundry room and he looked at me with his beautiful blue eyes. I sat down and picked him up and held him and stroked his head and back. He died in my arms about three minutes later. I shed precious few tears for him.

Soon thereafter, my father’s mother passed away followed by my mother’s mother. More trips to Minnesota to attend funerals followed. Still no tears. Then the day I was dreading came. My father had gall bladder removal surgery which was successful, but his kidneys shut down and never restarted. He died two weeks after the surgery. Yet another trip to Minnesota followed. Still no tears, just holes left in my heart where everyone had been.

Then in September, 2001, my best friend and lover passed away from complications of breast cancer. Although my mental blockage of negative emotions had begun to break down back in 1981, it was mostly still in place, thus, I didn’t cry, but all the joy of life left me and I became an empty shell of the person I used to be, that person is not what I am like today.

Three years ago my brother that I comforted when our mother died, passed away from advanced prostate cancer. I had stayed with him for three months while he lingered. I had been notified of needing to appear for jury duty but was able to reschedule it once for two months into the future. When my time to appear was approaching, he was still alive but I had to return home. He died the day after I arrived home. I had no funds to return for his funeral and I was not needed for a jury. I could have stayed there after all.

As if to rub-my-nose in all this past death experiences, last Friday, July 10th, one patron of the establishment where I work had a heart attack and died. I evaluated his pulse by feeling his neck and listened for his heartbeat by placing my ear on his chest. His eyes were open, dilated, and unresponsive to light. He was also very clammy. Thus, another memory I did not desire but I am stuck with was born.

The emotional blockage in my mind is crumbling fast and I am now flooded with emotion whenever the latest tragic news story is told about death at the hands of evil people and Mother Nature. These stories cause me to actually cry real tears for people I never knew and for those whom I did know.

There really is a 12-year old boy, who never matured mentally or emotionally, who still lives inside my head. We are both tired of all the death we have experienced and the killings that bombard us in the news. We both remember the fear of nuclear attack from the duck-and-cover days of school drills and fear of the bomb was always present in the back recesses of our shared thoughts. I know how alone he feels now that all our “ancestors” have passed because he is me and I am him, but we are not integrated into one complete and whole person. We are tired and we want our mother and father to hold and comfort us and help us navigate the ever increasing chaos of our society. But they are gone. Where are peace and love now? Where can we find them?

© 13 July 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Pets by Gillian

My mother was
a great one for pets. She had pet peeves, pet grievances, pet projects, pet
phrases, and, being a school teacher, even teacher’s pets! She herself used
these expressions.
“Oh, you know
that’s one of my pet peeves,” she’d say as a hand projected from a
passing car to deposit unsightly fish-and-chip wrapping in the flowering
hedgerow. Split infinitives was another. Star Trek was after her time, but I
cannot hear that phrase, to boldly go, without imagining how she would
have given a sharp intake of breath, shaken her head sadly, and told the TV,
admonishingly, “It’s either boldly to go, or to go boldly,
NOT to boldly go!”  Split
infinitives, she always stated, set her teeth on edge. Fortunately for her,
being a teacher, fingernails on the blackboard did not!
I, also, have
pet peeves; people who, chatting on their cellphones, crash their grocery carts
into my ankles. Or almost crash their car into my car. Or shout into their
cellphones at the table next to mine in a restaurant, or in line at the
supermarket. Or those who, speaking of the supermarket line, react in
astonishment when the clerk implies that they need actually to pay (see, no
split infinitive!) for their groceries, and begin an endless hunt, in a
bottomless purse, for their checkbook.
Mom’s pet
grievances, and they were many, were all sub-titles. They related, mostly
directly, occasionally indirectly, to the the Grand Category of Grievances: my
father. What he had ever done to deserve this, I never could ascertain; but I
have written about this before so will not repeat myself. Suffice it to say
that I loved my dad, and never truly understood Mom’s animosity.
When I say I
loved him, I don’t mean that he was my dad so of course I loved him in spite of
all his faults and wrong-doings. I mean that I loved him because of who he was,
not despite it.
I have my own
grievances, but most of mine, or so I like to think, are general rather than
personal.  “A feeling of resentment
over something believed to be wrong or unfair,” says the online
dictionary.  Given that definition, yes,
I grieve every war and every youth sacrificed to it. I grieve every starving
person with no food to eat, and every thirsty person with no water to drink. I
grieve man’s inhumanity to man, but then you’ve heard all that before, too. In
the last couple of years or so I find myself forced to grieve for young black
people killed, no, let’s use the right word here, murdered, for no
reason other than the color of their skin, by angry bigoted white men.
My mother’s
pet projects, in the sense of those which go on, year after year, were writing,
both poetry and prose, and pressing flowers. I do my best with writing, and
truly love doing it, but the pressed flowers somehow passed me by. I do love to
photograph them, though, so perhaps that’s some kind of higher-tech equivalent.
My latest pet project is organizing my photos into a series of theme books.
And so to pet
phrases!
Do as you
would be done by. If the whole world lives by
those few words, what a wonderful world it would be!
If you can’t
say something nice, don’t say anything at all. We, as a society, definitely have abandoned that one!
Oh dear! What
will people think? Mom, a product of an age when
appearances greatly mattered, said that quite frequently to both me and my dad,
neither of us great respecters of neighbors’ judgments.  
This one was
somewhat at odds with another pet phrase of Mom’s.
“Just be
comfortable,” she’d respond, in any discussion of what to wear, but then
proceed to “what will people think?” when I arrived in slacks or my
dad without a tie. Mom was not without her inconsistencies, but we learned
easily enough how to deal with them and my mother was, on the whole,
considerate, sweet, and kind. As with my dad, I loved her very much, simply for
who she was.
My mother had,
quite literally, generations of teacher’s pets. She began teaching in the local
two-room school in 1928 and retired in the early 1970’s, so, except for few
years out in the 40’s, she taught in the same room for about forty years. At
the end she was teaching some whose grandparents she had taught.  
“Oh that
little Johnny Batchett!” she’d exclaim. She never denied having favorites
but she would never have treated them as the classic teachers’ pets. She would
have taken great care never to show any hint of favoritism.
“He’s got
that same little cheeky smile as his granddad! He’s got his mother’s dimples
though. The girls are going to be round him like bees around the honey! Of
course, his dad was just the same. All ‘love them and leave them’ young Tom
was, till those dimples hooked him fair and square ….. ” and off she’d
go.
” ……
but that Yvonne Atkins! What a little madam! Still, what can you expect? Her
mum and dad, both such discipline problems at that age. I’ll never forget the
time …….”  My dad would give me
his covert wink, and we’d settle down to listen, or at least pretend we were.
Recalling
Mom’s pet thises and thats reminds me, once again, how the world has changed
over the course of my life. Not too many people these days are taught by the
same person who taught their grandparents, or even their parents. Or even, come
to that, an older sibling.
Most of us
care little what anyone thinks of the way we look, or often even the way we
act.  Those old admonitions such as the
Golden Rule, once painstakingly embroidered and hung on the wall, have more or
less disappeared; I’m quite sure they aren’t about to go viral any time soon.
I’m not suggesting we abided by such things in our day, but at least we were
aware of the concept; perhaps we tried.
Yes, I am
being an old curmudgeon. My own pet peeves and grievances grow apace.  Well why not? There is much of this Brave New
World I do not like.  But there would, I
suspect, be more to dislike, knowing what I now know, if I returned to that
rose-colored past, than there is in the reality of the present. Why would I
want to return to a world where homosexuality was illegal? A woman having a
baby was forced to quit her job, and for this reason could not get a loan to
buy a house or car in her own name, no matter how well paid she was. And even
after the birth control pill gave women much better control over their own
reproductive rights, it was illegal to provide [or] prescribe them for an
unmarried woman.  No. I really want np
part of it.
As for the
future, who knows?
As Jay Asher
says, in his novel Thirteen Reasons Why –
“You can’t stop the future
You can’t rewind the past
The only way to learn the secret
… is to press play.”
So as I’m not
yet quite ready to press the stop button, and certainly not the eject, I guess
I’d better do just that!
© 18 August 2014 
About the Author 
 I
was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to
the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the
Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised
four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting
myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25
years.